Veiled Skies
by Sara Darkotter
Summary: Veils are curtains of life and death. Skies are everlasting cycles. Fate, weaving her new story, makes her tangled thread from beaten heroes and broken villains and a taste of forgotten sunshine, rising just out of reach. EWE, NextGen
1. P r o l o g u e

_He was playing with a model figure. It moved and made faces and pretended to be who its face showed when left alone, but when Scorpius picked it up, it would be whoever Scorpius asked, whether it was the damsel in distress or the dragon. It was flying a miniature broom right now, and unlike the real Hermione Weasley, she didn't look even a bit airsick. She flew circles around Scorpius's head, then landed on the carpet, awaiting orders from a child's mouth._

_It was one of those days when Astrid wasn't visiting, and a year ago the eight-year-old Scorpius would have been upset, asking his dad over and over why Astrid couldn't visit, why he couldn't go over. But now Scorpius didn't mind so much. Things were colder between the once best friends, and he was getting used to being alone._

_She'd laughed at the scars._

_Of course, by now, Scorpius had realized that it had been a nervous laugh, hysterical even, but he wasn't going to be the one to apologize. _

_Scorpius touched his throat, feeling those scars, the dents in his throat. They ached. The model shuffled closer._

"_Go fly round the chandelier." Then, because it didn't feel right ordering around even a toy version of the brightest witch of the age, "Please?"_

_She nodded, pushing off the thick carpet with a little help from Scorpius, and began to fly circles, up, up, up into the air, over the furniture of the large sitting room. Scorpius smiled wide._

_A window broke with a great crash that echoed through the air. Scorpius stared as a man, a lanky unkempt man, his long and filthy hair spilling past his waist, crawled over the windowsill and into the room. Scorpius stared at him, the prisoners garb loose on his frame. He screamed. _

"_And here he is... Man of the hour... The first to die as I deal with that _traitorous _blood!" Even his voice was dirty, rough around the edges like it had only just been found after being missing for years. Scorpius took a shuddering breath, screaming again, his throat aching. The man pointed his wand at him._

"_Oh, shut up, you stupid little-"_

_Scorpius' father threw himself through the doorway, slamming into the man's shoulder. The man, unbalanced, fell, rolled, head slamming against a heavy wooden cabinet while Draco crouched in front of his son, wand out. His eyes focused on the man with a deadly calm. "Scorpius. Are you alright?" _

_Scorpius clung to the back of his black silk shirt, tears slipping down his face. "Y-Yeah..."_

"_Then I won't kill him right off," Draco muttered to himself. "Score, go. Find Grandfather."_

"_But Da-"_

"_I know... I know you don't like him, I know, I know. But it isn't safe. Go, Scorpius."_

_But the man sat up now, rage twisting his features. Scorpius let out a small sound of terror. The Hermione model landed on his shoulder and he clapped his hands over his mouth so he wouldn't scream again, wouldn't hurt his throat more. Draco slowly stood up, face blank and body relaxed but eyes full of cold contempt and Scorpius, for a moment, didn't recognize his own father, like when he'd turned on Grandfather, last month. _

"_Malfoy."_

"_Lestrange."_

_The man grinned. "You recognize me after all, traitor. Traitor, traitor, traitor..." He repeated that word like it was water, something he depended on for survival, bobbing his head back and forth for each repeat. _

"_Don't be like that, Lestrange. It was for the best. Why don't you sit down, put your feet up and just get this duel _over _with, you twisted half-witted freak?"_

_Lestrange bowed from the waist. "Observe the protocols, Draco. Follow the traditions, traitor."_

_His father smirked, bowing, but his eyes never left the man's, this, Le Strange, and he pushed Scorpius behind an armchair. _

_Scorpius whimpered._

_And it began with Lestrange shouting words and his father countering silent, quick movements of their wands and lights and fireworks, conjured creatures and spells that seemed to be nothing at all, but his shield deflected something, all the same._

_They were moving, now, enjoying the fight, cruel smiles and dark eyes. Scorpius slid under the armchair and cowered as furniture began to break, the misfired spells acting on it. There were tears in his eyes and terror on his face, locking his limbs. The Hermione doll petted his hair._

_There was nothing special about the moment. Tales like to dress it up as having a perfect clarity, a moment where you can see all the details, but it went as fast as the others for Scorpius, just a moment he replayed so many times with magic he knew those details the stories claimed._

_His dad, a wound dripping blood from his arm, onto the carpet, a pitter-patter of red rain. Cuts and scrapes and a shard of something in his hair. Le Strange, spears of glass shards imbedded all up one arm. Wiping the dirt on his forehead with a filthy hand. Four eyes alight with darkness, with the joy of the hunt, the kill._

_Where was someone? Why were there no elves, no Gran, no Grandfather, not even Mother? Why did no one come?_

_Lestrange grinning wide, raising his arm, wand steady and mouth open for another spell._

"_Advelivi!"_

_A second, trying to think, Draco struggling to remember, a shield up before noticing._

_Scorpius. Shield dropped, three quick steps and a leap, landing on all four limbs, wand dropped and forgotten._

_The spell collided with his chest, little tendrils of mist wrapping around him gentle. He collapsed, backwards to right, head catching on a low coffee table, limbs limp. _

_Why was he asleep? Why wasn't he breathing? Scorpius panicked, fluttering breath, as the man limped to him. "I've had my fun-for now. But one day I'll come for you..."_

_Footsteps now, loud, one running, one limping, one walking heavy, lightfooted elves._

_The man looked panicked, he didn't know how sound echoed in the manor._

"_Oblivate!"_

_§•§  
_

_Harry Potter, sitting in a muggle ice cream with his six-year-old daughter, found that he kept looking at his watch. There was that sense, that feeling that something was happening. He hated that sense._

_Especially today. The one day he gets to take Lily somewhere and something feels fated to go wrong. _

_He wasn't surprised when the third hand on his watch pointed to "work." His watch was a specially-made one, telling time but also telling him when he was needed somewhere. Work, home, Hogwarts. _

"_Lily, I know we only got here a half an hour ago, but something's just come up with work. I'm sorry."_

_She gave her ice cream scoop another lick and nodded sadly, taking his hand as he led her outside and to the apparating point. She clung tightly as the feeling of being squeezed swooped over them._

_He watched her start to drag open the door and immediately whirled on his heel._

_§•§  
_

_Scorpius was lying under a chair. There were footsteps-loud, unfamiliar footsteps, ones that didn't know the creaks in the floor or the way sound echoed. _

"_Still think its a suicide, sir."_

"_Suicide, when his son is right there?"_

"_It's the Malfoys, bet he didn't even care."_

_The sound of a slap._

"_Oi-How dare you hi-"_

"_I"m docking your pay."_

"_Oh, come on, Potter, it was just one-"_

"_Don't insult the dead. Narcissa, ma'am, are you sure you don't want to sit down? It's been a very difficult hour."_

_Scorpius opened his eyes, looking at a sitting room that was a wreck and his father in the middle of it, leaning against a table, not moving. He knew he should know why, but the memory, of how he'd ended up there, of everything, stopped suddenly at the memory of a model doll taking flight. Scorpius whimpered, crawling from under the chair, reaching for his father, the person who had helped him with everything, tucked him into bed, cleaned every scrape and cut and bruise._

_He was cold. His skin was cold, so cold, and it held no pulse, no beat of life under his fingertips._

"_Dad? Dad? Dad. Dad, wake up!" He didn't even notice the strangers, shaking his father's shoulder, not noticing the deep cuts down Draco's wrists. His head lolled back, loose._

"_Daddy! It's not funny!" He was hysterical now, crying. Strange arms carefully loosened his grip on silk fabric, curling around him. Harry Potter picked him up and held him, stroking his hair. _

"_I'm so sorry, Scorpius. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."_

_Scorpius sobbed. Clinging to Auror Potter, he sobbed into his shirt and robes. _

_Time became a blur of emptiness. He stopped crying, at some point, staring at a locket around Auror Potter's neck, the rectangle open to show pictures of three children, each in their baby years and a pretty red-haired woman. Potter's fingers absently ran along a dent in the frame._

_He was sitting on a chair, being questioned gently. He struggled to even remember his name._

_Draco was taken away, an empty shell wearing the name for the soul that had left. He cried and tried to stop them, suddenly convinced he might wake up. An auror, a different one, held him back with a gentle grip._

_Sitting on the floor, staring at a bloodstain on thick carpet as he claws at his memory, looking for what's after the flying doll._

_Like a curtain being dropped, it was there. The shattered glass and the man, his father falling in a mist._

_And the aurors didn't believe him. _

"_We know you're upset, but kid, it's not murder."_

"_Look, sometimes-sometimes when bad things happen, people invent a memory of how it happened. I know it's difficult-"_

"_It's suicide, little Malfoy."_

"_Not murder."_

"_Stop"_

"_Wasting"_

"_My"_

"_Our"_

"_Time."_

_Scorpius curled up next to the bloodstain and cried._

"_I believe you," Auror Potter whispered. "I'll see what I can do." He turned on his heel, apparating away._

_That bloodstain stayed on the carpet for a month._

* * *

To C O L L A P S E D readers, yes I will update as soon as I can. I'm having issues concerning the beast named writer's block. Motivation in the form of daily/weekly bugging PMs welcome.

Onto the story behind this. It's an ongoing roleplay in our forums section, by Yellowtail555, UnleashTheSnitch114, LunaAlyxandra, Violet Scarlet Lily, Couture Girl (Who spawned our Head!Canoning), and I. I, elected scribe, am now writing down, revising, and wrangling this into a readable plot. The plot's pretty far along, so I'm pretty sure there won't be any sudden plot-drops in it, and if there are, I'll keep them out of this for your (the reader's) sanity.

It's also got some differences with canon, as you may have guessed. Concerning the epilogue: all bets are off. At this point (Notes and RP-wise), canon has been screwed over and fucked sideways. For the more canon-inclined, you may wish to read a different story. Or you may not. If you feel interested, stay, and bathe in the non-epilogue compliance.

And on that cheery note, review! Criticism and anonymous accepted.


	2. Chapter 1: S c o r p i u s

Tada! First chapter is here!

Just so you know, their personalities may be quite different than you're used to, but be assured that there are reasons for them being the ways they are. (No "Becuz he's EBULL!1!1!" or "Just because I don't like her" or "She's a hor becuz a hor, dat's why, geddit?" around here.)

* * *

Scorpius had to get himself to King's Cross this year. This was the second year in a row.

Looking over his trunk one last time, he slammed it shut, picked up his owl cage (Carefully. Hades liked to bite) and floated the trunk down the many stairs to the sitting room. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door, looking at the high ceiling as he crossed the nearly empty room to the fireplace. He couldn't look at the floor. Even with most of the furniture removed, the carpet completely replaced years ago and even different creaks in the floor, in his mind it still looked the same and his dad was still leaning against a low table. He shoved his trunk and cage into the floo fireplace, stepping in. Really wishing that King's Cross had fireplaces to attach to the floo network, he threw a handful of powder at his feet with a quiet but clear "Leaky Cauldron." Spinning through the fireplaces, he coughed violently. Speaking clearly was not Scorpius's forte. Speaking hoarse was the only way he generally could.

Landing in the fireplace at the Cauldron, Scorpius steeled himself, drawing in his shoulders and ducking his head as he picked up his trunk and slipped from one of many fireplaces in the inn-and-pub. He wasn't the only person using the place as a stopover to King's Cross, but he was the only fifth-year alone and, quite obviously, he was the only Death Eater's son. The other children of the losers of the war never traveled alone.

The wizards and witches around didn't stop drinking or talking when he scrambled from the fireplace, dusting himself off and beginning a quick and quiet walk to the door. They just changed what they were talking about.

"Wonder how he even shows his face..."

"Yeah, well I wonder where his da got up to?"

"I heard he died, years ago."

"Yeah, right. Scum like that doesn't just die."

His face stayed blank, slouching as he worked his way through the tables and then opened the door, slipping through it into muggle London.

It was an instant relief. The muggles didn't know him, he was just some kid with an owl in the crowd, all that anybody cared about was the owl, and even then few people noticed Hades at all. It was a gentle autumn morning and people were hurrying to work, to shop, hurrying. Scorpius tugged his trunk a little down the street, becoming an instant face in the crowd. Wizards and witches alike passed him by this way. Standing by the curb, Scorpius raised his wand.

The purple Knight Bus gave a sharp bang as it jumped into existence. "Welcome to the-Oh, ne'er mind, jus' get on board. Students." The conductor was different than last year. Scorpius wondered vaguely what had happened to Stan as he shoved his trunk onboard and sat on it, looping his arm around a standing pole. He had found that sitting with the luggage was the safest place on the Knight Bus.

"That's twenty for King's Cross! Bes drop em off!"

"Second load in an hour!"

Scorpius locked his jaw with a blank expression and then let the bus, with it's nauseating motion, take him to King's Cross. Several young children in the front gave exhilarated screams as they squeezed through a sea of muggle buses, Tuesday morning traffic, quests for the last of the school supplies.

"Scuse me, kid, but you needs to-"

Scorpius handed the dark-haired man the exact fare. Saved counting out change on a dangerously moving vehicle. The man took it and nodded in satisfaction, and then paused.

"Say, aren't you Scorpius Malfoy?"

Scorpius shrugged and gripped the pole tighter as the bus jerked to a sudden halt in a screech, honk and a sea of animal noises.

"Wotcher doing taking this common transport?"

"My gran couldn't take me. Work." The man had to lean close to hear him.

"Don't you have anyone else t-"

"No."

"Why're you talking so qui-"

Scorpius raised his head to look him full in the face, giving the man a good view of his throat and the scars there. He shuffled away, instead helping an elderly woman on and guiding two parents (who looked vaguely terrified) to sit with the others while their child bounced to a seat. Several people departed at this stop, green around the gills.

"Next stop, King's Cross!" the driver announced. Scorpius anchored a trainer on Hades' cage, stopping her rolling away, as the bus took off again, nearly yanking his arm from its socket. He barely even seemed to notice on the outside, inside he was grinning wildly. Despite its many problems, the Knight Bus was damn cool.

The brakes screeched, back end flying up and slamming down, bus shaking. "King's Cross!"

Scorpius grabbed his trunk and cage and was the first one off. He dragged his trunk across the parking lot to a trolley, pushing it inside. While the muggles traveling looked confused at the sight of a youth carrying an owl cage, it was obvious the staff were vaguely consigned to the fact that weirdos were coming to King's Cross today, and it was 'that' time of year again, ignoring him completely with a tired expression. "Aren't a nine 'n' tree quarters..." a guard murmured tiredly.

Maneuvering the trolley through the crowd, Scorpius spotted people. There was the extended Weasley clan, red hair with flashes of blond, black, and a single brunette head.

There was Professor Longbottom, his wife and son. It appeared he wasn't on greeting squad this year. Too bad. First-years needed a friendly face like his.

Pausing a short distance from the barrier, he could see more. There was his godfather, Theodore Nott. He didn't wave. It wasn't that he didn't like his godfather, it was his daughter, Astrid, skipping at his side. Scorpius watched her white-blond hair bounce a moment, feeling something ice-cold and sharp. He looked elsewhere.

Luna Scamander, Rolf, and the twins Lorcan and Lysander. The twins, blatantly glaring at each other, one brunette, one blond, both pissed. Must have had an argument on the way here. Everyone in Hogwarts knew that those two hated each other.

Pushing through the barrier and showing his ticket to the gatekeeper, Scorpius quickly pushed up to the train. More people, all too busy to notice him, thankfully. There was a first-year, with a look on her face like she had never seen a train station before. Maybe she hadn't. It did happen. Looking at her father's cold (And rather closed) expression, Scorpius decided that the little black-haired girl likely hadn't. He dragged his trunk onboard and sat on the little stair.

George Weasley ruffled his son's hair, letting him onboard with a quick shove and quiet laughter. Ronald Weasley, with a face that said he didn't do this often, hugging his daughter and son goodbye while his ex-wife waited impatiently to do the chance. Hermione's hugs were much warmer than their father's. Harry Potter, hesitantly saying goodbye to all three of his brood. They looked like they weren't quite sure how to respond. Ginny, getting a similar response.

Scorpius did this every year, watching the people around him interact. He liked guessing about them, about what happened at home when the world wasn't there to interact. And he would also feel vaguely jealous that these people had each other while he had nothing but a bad-tempered owl and a distant grandmother. (Scorpius never counted his grandfather; it had been a year since he'd seen a glimpse of him anyway)

Professor Longbottom and his son Jake both hugged Hannah goodbye, saying goodbyes till the holidays. They seemed the most family-like in sight, a mother, father and child, nothing broken hiding in their personal lives.

It was painful to watch.

And there was his godfather again. Scorpius gave him a slight nod, ignoring Astrid completely, and right on time felt the eyes.

He turned to meet them with his usual bubble of fear. Hermione Granger, as every year, was staring at him. It had become a sort of odd tradition. Ever since his first year, when he'd been so terrified of the crowd he'd turned to his grandmother for comfort, hiding his face in the pale grey jacket of her woman's suit. Ronald's Weasley's voice had rolled the distance across the station, _"Make sure to beat him in every test, Rosie."_ How oddly the nickname had rolled off his tongue.

The eyes of Hermione Granger had descended on him, watching him with a face carefully controlled-blank. A blank expression was never good, Scorpius had long learned. Her brown eyes had watched, focused on the window of the carriage he had entered, until the train left the station.

Her eyes were, like every year, their blank mask, but something flickered behind them, unreadable. Anger? Pain? Something. Scorpius could only stare at her a moment before he looked elsewhere, looked for something or someone he could disassemble into mental compartments.

Seamus Finnigan-single father of twins, both of them excitedly clinging to their father and faces alight. They talked fast, their father pushed the cart, clothes were expensive but wrinkled from a trip on the bedroom floor. Spoiled and happy, they would make friends easily, cause joyful trouble, but would have adjusting to doing real work.

Of all things, Rita Skeeter, standing in the crowd in all gold, patting a boy's shoulder. Several people, Scorpius included, tried to listen in.

"Now, make Granty proud, Milo."

Granty-Great-aunt, or Grandmother. Rita Skeeter had no children. Great-aunt.

"I will."

Milo, arrogant, and with a rather dark expression, submitting to a final few pats on the head. "I'll send you something every week."

"That's a good boy! And tell me all the gossip you can find!"

Scorpius caught the boy's gaze a moment. He didn't even think, his gaze became instant ice, head tilted to that right angle that said that Milo was not worthy of attention, waiting to see how he would react.

Milo looked away. Good. That kid needed someone to take him down a notch or six before he hurt someone.

The girl with the amazed expression-wearing all boy's clothes, a size too large, trainers soles worn to the very edges. Either poor family or attachment to an older brother. Her father in an unreadable dark suit-attachment, probably. He was too well groomed to be a poor man. She would be an extremely innocent first-year, attach to her dormmates with ease and talk far too much about the brother whose clothes she was wearing, possibly a Gryffindor, more likely a Hufflepuff.

Wait. Her father crouched to whisper something to her, not touching her, she looked at the floor in a rather shameful manner, nodding slowly with her eyes closed. No, obviously there was some family standard and she was already not meeting it. Her father left, leaving her standing alone in the station, she sat on her small trunk and watched feet. Not a Hufflepuff. Gryffindor, definitely. A family with a Hufflepuff child didn't have standards. Not the sort that made you ashamed of looking amazed in a train station. Scorpius looked around. Hermione Granger was still staring at him, blatantly, assured that her yearly ritual of watching a student with an empty mask would go unnoticed. Unnerved as always, Scorpius stood, shoving his trunk a little farther into the entrance and stepping onto the train. Hades had her usual expression, staring at Scorpius as he picked up the cage. It said, very clearly (To him), 'You undignified bastardized rodent's son, I'm ashamed to be seen with you!'

Scorpius put down the cage by an empty cabin and kicked it lightly. Scorpius had been long convinced that Hades had been bought for her old-fashioned owl idealism and her particularly nasty temper. He took great satisfaction in general abuse of her travel cage.

Dropping it on a table, he threw his trunk overhead and collapsed onto a bench to watch the station.

. . .

Albus Potter came by. He yelled some abuse through the door, but Scorpius feigned sleep and he soon left. Sometimes, Scorpius wondered why in all hell Potter would choose the role of school bully of all things, but since it was widespread abuse, rather than focused on singular targets (i.e., him), Scorpius wasn't going to read into anything. He had enough physical pain in his life.

Watching his own reflection, Scorpius swept long strands of hair from his face, tucking them behind his ears. He was searching his face, looking for something, he never knew what when these urges swept over them. He stared back-grey eyes and high cheekbones and blond-white hair cut to his chin, pale skin with paler scars cut into his throat. He lifted fingertips to them, off-center, diagonal slashes, and with a slight shudder remembered just how he'd gotten them.

Hating his appearance again, he turned his head to examine Hades, slumping against the window. She twisted her neck around, large yellow eyes searching him, looking for a sign she was about to get a treat. None came. Dejected, she hooted, the rest of her turning to be front-and-center with her head, hooting again. Scorpius twisted, throwing his legs up onto the bench, hands clasping behind his head and resting back on that one lone and dejected pillow that always ended up in the cabins and lost half its feathers within a few years. He determinedly ignored his owl.

She determinedly tried to get his attention, hooting and flapping her wings until her cage fell off the table with a tremendous crash. With a sigh, Scorpius let a blind hand wander to grab the cage bars, getting bit by a sharp and angry beak and ignoring it as he swung it onto the tabletop again and dropped a treat through the bars.

"Now just shut up," Scorpius grumbled quietly, rubbing his hand and glaring a little on the blood that pooled on the end of his first finger. Not knowing where that beak had been, he squeezed a bit more blood from the little wound, let it bead down his finger before wiping it away. He let his hand drop and trail along the floor. Little wounds like that never really bothered him anymore.

Staring at the ceiling as the train rattled along, he listened to threads of conversation.

"Seen what Lily's wearing? Whore."

"We're hosting the Triwizard, this time. And they're letting sixteen-years enter! Look, they sent out a form to sign! I can enter!"

"Oh! There goes James Potter! He's so HOT... Wonder if I have a chance..."

"He'll love you and leave you, don't bother."

"But I can change him! I'll change him and he'll repent his playboy ways!"

Scorpius rolled his eyes as the gossiping girls wandered past. If the words 'I can change him/her' come off someone's tongue about their date, it's not a good relationship.

Now, what was this about the Triwizard? The last one had been held at-he wanted to say Beauxbatons, but he had been ten, so he wasn't sure.

So this meant he had two other schools of people to disassemble-a school of prissy girls and pretty-boys, and a school of military hardasses. Those were his base ideas, at least. Maybe France had a few combat wizards in training.

Mulling over this, Scorpius pulled the shades on his cabin, beginning to take off his coat as he stood on the bench to open his trunk. Grabbing the necessary uniform pieces (Button-up, tie, robes; he hated those sweater vests), he sat down again, trunk lid dropping closed.

Pulling off his t-shirt, he paused, as always, to inspect himself with a feeling of disgust. He had a well-maintained runner's build (His only physical activity: he wasn't on a Quidditch team and doubted he'd ever make one), which he was just fine with, happy, even. He had absolutely no body hair, but he didn't care and wouldn't care, no matter how much his dormmates teased and laughed; it was genetic according to his family healer, so there wasn't anything he do about that anyway, and it made showers quicker when there wasn't something trapping dirt and sweat. He didn't even mind the black cloth tied around his upper arm so long he couldn't untie it-he had to yank it off to wash it.

It was the scars. The scars traveling his arms and torso, lines of different lengths and width, some sleek knife cuts, some hacked out with his nails, those deep ones done with a shard of glass, these shallow done with a straight pin. He could count the lies of his life in the marks on his body, and it disgusted him. Disgusted him how he couldn't stop.

He pulled on his shirt, buttoned it, blue-and-bronze tie knotted around his neck. Slipping his arms into the wide sleeves of the school robes (he swore he could keep an owl in them-whose forearms needed that much room anyway?), he pulled the shades up, giving Hades' cage a good kick as she complained. He stuffed the t-shirt into his trunk and dusted his jeans as he sat down, staring out the window.

Scotland rolled by, hills and valleys and towns, though those were few, muggle-repelling charms preventing permanent settlement near the tracks. Green and grey, splashed with droplets of autumn, whirled by quickly.

Just a few hours ahead, Hogwarts lay, ready to be cloaked in night and loom over the welcoming of children.

The year begins.

* * *

Reviews really do help me, whether they help this or other stories update. It doesn't take much, no need to be scared :)


	3. Chapter 2: L o r c a n

This chapter, a thousand words shorter than the one before it, (-_-) is through the eyes of Lorcan Scamander. Lorcan Scamander is awesome, as you all will eventually find out. His RP master is Couture Girl.

Also, sadly, Violet Scarlet Lily has left Fanfiction. She will be missed.

This chapter is also called: _The Blasphemy of Skipping._

* * *

There were a few certain things Lorcan liked.

He dug his fingers into her hair, tilting her head a little more.

The first was his mother, Merlin bless her.

She groaned, arms tightening around his neck, scrabbling to grip something, anything.

The second was Quidditch.

He slammed her up against the wall again, something falling and hitting him across the shoulder-blade.

The third was sex. Lots of it.

A knee pressed in-between the girl's thighs, she finally pushed him away a little, desperately drawing air into her lungs, while Lorcan went straight for her neck. A strange sound slipped from between the girl's lips as he nipped her collarbone.

'_Gotcha.'_ He smirked, nipping and tugging at the skin there while she squeaked and sighed and once she realized he was doing it on purpose, exaggerated her response to a groaning mess. Pitiful, but Lorcan had been stuck at home for an entire month, barely a girl in sight. This would have to do.

His hands slid up under her shirt, over soft skin, fingertips grasping at the edge of her bra, but then came a shudder and the train stopped moving. With a depressed sigh, Lorcan stepped back, opening the door to the storage closet they'd been hiding in, kicking the brush that had fallen on him. "Later," he said with a smirk, and left her standing there, a panting mess with her skirt around her knees. Whether there was a later was of no concern to him. There were plenty of girls in Hogwarts, ones less ridiculous than that brunette.

He grabbed his trunk, letting it drag as he forced his way through the crowd, adjusting the green tie around his neck until it lay straight again. Nearly running over a first-year, he rolled his eyes, muttered something about them getting in the way and hopped down from the train, yanking his trunk to the ground and putting it in one of the stacks.

Lysander bumped into him. Lorcan, making sure his name on the trunk was clearly visible, turned around to glare at him. His blond fraternal twin visibly shook for a second before throwing his own trunk onto the pile. They had an argument on the way to the train station that morning. Their mother had them take thestrals to King's Cross. Rolf (Lorcan _never _called him Father) had said something about how it was dangerous and unconventional in that disapproving-and-terrified voice, and Lysander had dared to agree. Yet another of his personal assaults on Mum.

Unfortunately, they had to share a thestral for the ride.

Lorcan shoved his brother to the side, making his way towards the carriages, while Hagrid's voice boomed over the dark station.

"Firs' years! Firs' years!" He waved the lantern in his huge grip, the soft light making him appear much more fierce than he truly was.

The pool of golden light spread far over the station, illuminating it, but yet showing only outlines and shadows, the colors smudging in the after-dusk gloom.

Something resembling a smile flickered over Lorcan's face as he watched the new kids, first scared, then slowly creaking forward, encouraged by Hagrid'd friendly smile, and then gathering around, moths reaching for the carrier of the light.

He thought he could pick out a few potential fellow Slytherins, the ones who hung towards the edges, or had more pride in their way of gathering. One girl was completely ignoring the lantern, instead laying a hand on the scarlet steam engine.

"Lorcan!"

He turned around with a grin, hugging the seventh-year girl. "Bay-darling! How are you? I've been so alone, all summer. Little Lorcan's feeling blue."

Bay and him were friends with benefits. Lots and lots of benefits.

She rested her head on his shoulder a moment. "We'll cheer him up, don't worry." She patted his hip just shy of his crotch and adjusted her Hufflepuff tie, which from the looks had been putting up a good fight with her when she tried to tie it. Lorcan pulled it straight with a smirk. Looping an arm through hers, they looked down the hill at the wide trail to the carriages, and walked. Almost skipped, except that neither Slytherins nor seventh-years skipped, and to suggest such a thing was blasphemy of the highest form.

They skipped.

All the way down the path, to the carriages, and with a nod to the thestral he couldn't see, Lorcan pulled himself into the open-topped apparatus. A younger Hufflepuff boy, eyes focused on anywhere but them, clambered in and sat down. The carriage wheels rumbled.

The air was still warm with summer, so it was a rather pleasant trip all the way up to Hogwarts, talking and laughing and listening.

To be honest, Lorcan would have preferred to be snogging, not talking, but one takes what they can get.

Disembarking, he stared up at the entrance and sighed, taking Bay's arm again. "Come on, Bay-darling. To the Great Hall."

The stones rang with footsteps as people filed into the halls, passing Miss Chang with her cross between infinitely sad eyes and an angry leer. The curse-scars on her face twisted at the corners of her expressions.

Someone banged open the doors of the Great Hall, proclaiming, "I'm ho-ome, Mother!"

Laughter rippled back, washing over Lorcan. Looking to his left, he saw Astrid Nott.

Lorcan, as he'd had for a few years now, felt that strange almost squeeze, almost connection he always felt when he looked at her. Sometimes Lorcan thought it was love, and sometimes it was just confusing. Either way, he avoided her.

If it was love, he didn't want to hurt her.

Stepping into the Great Hall, the candles twinkling brightly under the star-strewn ceiling, Lorcan and Bay separated with a wink. They would be busy later. Very busy.

He bumped into Malfoy, mostly ignored him as he walked around the slump-shouldered fellow fifth-year. Some people.

Settling down among his fellow Slytherins (right between Emiliano Sleep-Deprived and Hector Head-Boy) they took up conversations about the summer, glancing towards the doors and waiting for the arrival of Professor Sinistra and the first-years. Hector was talking about the job he got after leaving home. All around them, the conversations varied.

"And let me tell you, she is HOT!"

"My mother made me work-"

"See what the _Prophet_ said?"

"Yeah, but _Witch Weekly_-"

The doors were thrust open, their Astronomy teacher leading the new students. Some were shaking, some were shuffling, some slumped with head downcast, some scanning the crowd and waving enthusiastically to siblings, some with their heads up and eyes locked forward.

A rickety three-legged stool and an old hat were set down.

"Line up! When your name is called, come up, sit down and the hat will sort you."

The Sorting Hat burst into song. Lorcan tuned it out in favor of, once again, inspecting the newcomers.

There was varied reactions to the Hat, from outright fear and suspicion, to mild shock, to smiles. A few of them just looked bored with the whole thing.

When the final notes of song finished echoing in the Hat's gravelly voice, the sorting began.

"Auer, James!"

A boy whose limbs had grown without him, leaving him looking a little tangled in his own body as he walked up onto the dais and sat down, eyes wide. The hat barely touched his head before "RAVENCLAW!"

Whistles, cheers and table-banging. He pulled off the hat and made it down the steps, looking like he might trip over himself any second.

"Ayers, Whitney!"

Ayers, Whitney, was a small, dark-haired girl who still looked a bit shocked over the talking hat. She was shoved gracelessly forward. Scrambling up the steps, she plunked down and the hat was set over her eyes. A few seconds of quiet muttering and the visible portion of her face broke into a grin as the hat proclaimed "HUFFLEPUFF!"

A table of yellow and black leapt to their feet and cheered.

"Bernard, Hope!"

A girl with her hair dyed a faded lime green and blue. Underneath it was blond, unless that was fake too. She tipped up to the chair, sat down primly, and in less than thirty seconds was awarded the honor of being the first new Slytherin of the year.

Trying to outdo the Hufflepuffs, the entire table leapt to its feet, roaring and cheering and stomping their feet. It was quiet the racket. The Ravenclaws looked a little deaf, being the poor unfortunate table next to them.

"Bishop, Aaron!"

Long-nosed and wide-eyed and trying to be braver than he actually was, Bishop, Aaron tripped when he got up to the stool and sat down. The hat dropped over his eyes at an angle. A second of muttering, and-"GRYFFINDOR!"

He handed the hat over and ran to cheers, sitting down with a grin.

"Black, Lynx!"

The room seemed to give a pause, staring at the girl who took a step onto the dais. Even the new muggleborns sensed the air and watched her.

The Blacks were dead. They died with Sirius Black. So who was this child, this imitation borrowing a buried name? She looked like a Black, with the black hair and high cheekbones and straight spine. But she couldn't be... That tapestry showing the pureblood line had been inspected and inspected and inspected and it always ended Sirius. Lorcan's mother had helped.

'_So... Who are you? Really?' _Lorcan thought, eyes narrowed. She seemed Slytherin. It wouldn't be that hard to find out something about his own housemate.

She looked at the stool a moment before she sat, one hand going to her lap and the other running along the stool edge, waiting for Sinistra to come to her senses. She seemed almost... Fascinated by the feel of the wood.

The Hat was carefully set on her head.

Her expressions flickered by quickly as the Hat began to mutter, body tensing, a slight, sharp shake of her head.

The Hat started to argue back and then just stopped.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Her hands were shaking as it was removed from her head and she was let through to sit down.

The rest of the sorting was much less uneventful, except...

"Finnigan, Alec!"

Finnigan grinned wide, took a step forward, and then tripped up the stairs. Brushing sandy-colored hair out of his eyes as he got back up, he proceeded to pat the stool-and there was a small explosion from a nail holding the stool together, which then tried to launch itself across the room, but was swiftly confined by quick work from a member of Ravenclaw table.

He became a Gryffindor in short order. Thank Merlin. Let them deal with the incompetent moron.

The first-years were now sorted, applause echoed politely, and Headmistress McGonagall stood up.

"Thank you. Now. As always, the Forbidden Forest is forbidden. Miss Chang and the ghost of Mister Filch would like to remind you that Weasley products are banned from use in the halls and the fireworks are banned from the grounds and building for all purposes. You may notice Ministry Officials visiting Hogwarts over the next several weeks. It is Hogwart's turn to host the Triwizard tournament. The schools will be arriving in October! More information will be announced closer to their arrival.

"The first Hogsmead weekend will be the third week in October, for third-years and up who had their permission slip signed by a parent or guardian.

"Willow Rawlins has taken over the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, and Lorcan Scamander the Slytherin! For tryout dates for all teams, please talk to your captain or Head of House!"

Jonathan Bain, a seventh-year Slytherin, glared at the side of Lorcan's head. Of course, there was a reason that he had been skipped over for Lorcan. The burly beater was dumb as a rock.

But a good beater, nonetheless.

Food appeared and Lorcan looked around a little, finally sighting the only recipient of brotherly love from Lorcan. Lily Potter, in a tight shirt that made Lorcan angry thinking of the sort of attention it would draw, hadn't touched a bit of it, despite the plate of mouthwatering chicken sitting right in front of her. Lorcan sighed and began eating the pudding the elves always put near him. It was pudding in the American term of pudding, this time, but it was rather good. It was just the sort of thing Mum loved, and it was nice to be reminded of Mum.

Lorcan scraped the bowl clean before starting on other courses.

There was soups and meats and bread and something that he wasn't quite sure what it was, but it tasted good, so who cared? Again, something rather like Mum, who didn't follow recipes, but it usually tasted good anyway.

And for some odd reason always smelled faintly of cinnamon...

Downing a goblet of pumpkin juice, he watch Professor McGonagall and his Head of House, Professor Grouse, for a signal they could go.

He had to sit through the dessert course first.

Time dragged.

* * *

Yeah, Lorcan's so secure, he can skip without worry (but only for Bay). Can you? :P

If you review, he might skip with you too!

And yes, I invented a professor called Professor Grouse. He's ancient. He's not plot-important. He was invented for one purpose and one purpose only, and you will not find that out for several more chapters :P


	4. Chapter 3: D o m i n i q u e

I return to you all typing in the coolest font ever, because my writer's block is kicked by the strangest of things.

So for this chapter, I was going to do Al, but couldn't figure out anything that didn't make him sound psycho, the roleplay group said Lynx but I want our reader-author bond to strengthen before I test it with an OC, and then I stumbled across Dom...

Also, just a warning, she's got this slight obsession with other peoples' appearances, so beware physical descriptions...

* * *

Dominique was Queen of the Ravenclaws. Not all of them were aware of this. They thought she was princess of Ravenclaw, beautiful and always getting what she wanted. But Dominique was Queen, and she'd earned the capital letter. Ravenclaw were her subjects, and it was her duty to care for them. She talked to the younger ones and helped the first-years to classes and soothed their homesickness. She helped fifth-years study and helped the stress on the sevenths. She ruled them with a kind hand, even picking Malfoy up off the ground and dusting off Nott and cleaning up after Zabini.

And still, if anyone was asked the most memorable thing about her, it would be her body. Dominique was irresistable. Dominique had great tits. Dominique had lots of friends and probably slept with all of them because what else do pretty girls do?

She was propositioned by, it felt like, everyone when in public. Hey, you want a date at my place? Hey, you'd look good naked in my bed. I'll pay you to suck me. I'll pay you to shag me. Of course you want to, why wouldn't you? Hey, would you like a job in nude modeling? How about porn? Just let me feel you up, don't be a bitch...

Dominique felt like one of those girls from a cheap novel, where the author pushed her beauty on you to pretend she had flaws and so she could complain about being too beautiful constantly. Dominique was too beautiful, she was told, but no one treated her like the girls in the books, with sympathy and gifts and poetry that rang empty. So she stayed silent. She refused to be shallow.

She also refused to move, even while Hector shook her gently. "Come on, Dom, we'll be late for breakfast."

"You're warm, Great Hall's not, just a little longer..." She tangled her legs around one of his, face pressed to his chest.

"Dom, Slytherin House will be getting up soon."

She groaned and stretched. "But Teddy will be at breakfast... I don't want to face him this early... Please, Hector..."

Hector was her friend. Surely he wouldn't make her stare at Teddy's grinning face and watch him laugh, see him look at her and think only of his girlfriend's little sister. Every time Teddy looked at her, it hurt...

He sighed. "If you'd gotten up before, you could have had an early breakfast and avoided him completely. And if you're not up in fifteen minutes you won't avoid Slytherin House either."

She stared at him, mind trying to put the second part of his sentence into an image. Rumors came to mind, and people leering at her and saying that if she slept with Hector, maybe she'd-

She sat up slowly, one vertebrae at a time. Books said that was impossible, to which Dominique said 'Go stuff yourself,' because it was too early in the morning for reality. She kissed Hector's cheek and summoned her bag. Out of its depths she pulled a change of clothes, refusing to leave the warmth of the bed to pull them on. She watched Hector as he moved around the room.

She liked Hector's face. It wasn't handsome, no spectacularly attractive features to yank a girl's attention (Except his eyelashes, and sometimes their length seemed to swamp his eyes), he was rather plain.

If he was a corpse.

His features were plain, but life animated them well, illuminated just the right places that physical appearance had missed, and gave him beauty-the type she wished she had. Life was like sunlight-some people looked sallow in it, and Dominique was one of them.

Socked feet now touching the cold floor, she pulled on her shoes and laced them, and folded her clothes from the day before, shoving them into her bag. "I'll see you later, Hector. Have fun organizing all the first-years."

Because there was always schedule printing problems, and some maps were always mislabeled or outdated, and somewhere, Peeves was sending them down the wrong hallway again to Hufflepuffs who did the same.

He groaned, reminded of the nightmare today would be as Dominique opened the door. Down the small set of stairs, and she paused around the bend to listen. No voices bounced back to her, but there could have been a silencing spell in effect. She swallowed and took her chances.

No one, no rustle of clothes or sound of footsteps but her own. The green fire roared to life as she passed it, the dark green lake-water swishing gently past the windows-like the winds around Ravenclaw tower, softened. She let herself out, watching the passage disappear behind her, and hurried through the dungeon corridors, her footsteps now loud, keeping an eye out for Mrs. Chang (She'd given up her married name, but not the title) and Professor Grouse.

"What are you doing down here?" The voice lacked inflection, emotion and even life.

She closed her eyes tight and turned to face the old man.

Professor Grouse was truly old. No one really knew his age, but if asked to guess, things in the hundreds tended to pop out of peoples' mouths without stopping to soften the blow. Some people were old but so full of spirit they seemed decades younger despite the grey or bald patches. Some people were young but desolate, prompting embarrassing attempts to cover up mistakes from strangers. Professor Grouse was old and desolate and it had weighed into him, pressing on his shoulders till he was nearly bent all the way over, spotting his skin and making it hang like it wished to abandon his body for the floor, and what must have once been brilliant dark eyes, the remains of flecks of gold, were now like rough common stone without all its artistic beauty. He leaned himself on his cane - a plain wooden thing that must have been thirdhand fifty years ago and uncared for since new - like it was his spine and legs with hands that she had never seen off of it, spindly hands like wet twigs.

They said Professor Grouse had a different name, once. They said Professor Grouse had a child once. They said Professor Grouse had been someone grand, once. They said lots of things about Professor Grouse, once, and you had to ask Teddy to hear them now, and the old man only sank deeper into his own ruination when asked. Whoever he had been, he wasn't anymore. Professor Grouse was only once.

"I'm really sorry, I was looking-"

"Go, and sneak away better next time." He was already turning, head swinging around first, the rest of him following. "Five points from Ravenclaw."

She hastily retreated, imagining the sapphires rising up in the hourglass, writing a mental reminder to earn ten points later that day. She left the dungeons behind, the early morning sun pooling on the hallway walls and dripping down in golden tones. Soft shadows hid in the names carved in the walls. As she always did in the morning, she pressed two fingers to her lips and then pressed them to the name, repeating it for each little memorial she passed. The names had rearranged themselves over the summer again, and this year the name Ted Tonks was in the hallway to the Great Hall. She let her fingertips linger over that name, the simple font and deep lettering, and the same for Sirius Black in an elegant script. She could have known them. She wondered if life brought beauty their faces-photographs often lied. She imagined it did.

"Admiring the stars, Dom?"

She jerked her hand away from the wall, breath catching in her throat. She counted to ten - she tried to, but forgot the numbers after five and before nine. A blush, bright red, spread across her cheeks.

"I-Hi, Tedd-Prof-Professor Lupin."

She knew she shouldn't look at him, but that it would be rude not to, and compromised by half-turning, auburn curls shielding her from the captor of her heart.

Teddy's hair was pink today, and short, and his build slim and tall, and he was grinning as always. His cheekbones were low, rounding out his face, and his eyes were turning amber. Teddy only had amber eyes for her.

"Enjoying the start of second week? Thrilled by the idea of getting homework again?" He began walking towards the Great Hall, then twirled in mid-step and began walking backwards. "Imagine, all those lovely essays you'll be pressed for time to even turn in late! The festering of sleep away to work for extra credit we didn't know we'd give until it shows up on our desks!"

That wasn't the proper use of fester, and he knew it, but she only smiled shyly.

"I can taste the time I shall lose like knuts behind the couch to grading the Ravenclaws! And signs says that we've got a smarter-than-average bunch of first-years! Hey, kid, you shouldn't sleep there, you're depriving the desks of their jobs!" He shepherded a tiny and tired Gryffindor first-year into the middle of the hall. She'd been leaning in a corner, eyes closed. She bundled her worn robes closer around her and stared at Teddy's pink hair in shock, his joke flying completely over her little tangled head. Dominique frowned at her hair. It was a wonder it wasn't dreadlocks, black strands horribly tangled. It was basic hygiene to brush long hair once a day.

"So, what's your name, cub?"

"'Inks," she mumbled, scrubbing at dark blue eyes as Teddy continued walking backwards down the hall.

"Well, Ink, nice to meet you, I'm Professor Lupin and I teach you how to punch bad men's teeth out with a spell!"

An un-Dominique giggle slipped past her lips, and Teddy gave her a grin. 'Inks' was mumbling something about how she couldn't as they passed the doors of the Great Hall, the noise gently washing over them.

"'Course you can't! I haven't taught you yet! What sort of teacher would I be if you learned it before I taught it?"

Her expression crinkled, openmouthed, as she struggled to word a reply. One could hear the gears in her brain groaning rustily, getting nowhere.

"That's rhetorical, Ink. Go sit down, I'll see you in class! And you I shall only see in the halls, so I need a hug to survive." His strong arms circled her, pressing their bodies together for a brief moment. She held her breath to see if time would stretch to make it last longer. Then his warmth was gone and her sister's boyfriend bounded up to his spot at the staff table.

She shuffled to her seat and put her head in her hands. It was going to be a long day, getting longer.

. . .

The day got longer. Time, spiraling out of her grip, stretched itself so each minute was agony. Dinnertime rolled around, and too sick to her stomach to eat, she grabbed her brother and pulled him to the library.

Louis and Dominique had always been close. Born eighteen months apart, they'd been friends most of their lives, knew all the other's secrets. They weren't nearly as close to Victoire - she was six years older than Dominique, universes away when you're just learning to walk and she's running up and down stairs, playing tag with the cousins; worlds away when you're playing tea with your bears and she's gone to Hogwarts and the gap between Victoire and her younger sister and brother never closed. Dominique could count the things she knew about her on her hands. She could fill a paper with tally marks for the things she knew about Louis.

Louis was five-foot seven, as bright blond as Malfoy but thin and lanky like his limbs had been built for someone else - taller, broader shouldered. He still had growing to do. His face was gentle and his hair wild, bangs brushing his cheeks and refusing to stay pulled back, but he was terrified of haircuts. The time he met Uncle Charlie, they were trying to cure him of a thumb-sucking habit, so he told him about the scissor-man who cut off children's thumbs. Louis refused to have anything to do with scissors for years, getting cornered by their mother for haircuts and crying against Dominique for hours afterwards.

His hair was fascinating, almost perfectly straight and yet wild as a cornered lion. She ran her hands through it often, trying to neaten it. It never worked.

His eyes were a light blue, crystal blue, a July sky at midday, beautifully expressive, and right now were trained on her as she tried to think of where to start.

"T-Teddy?" he finally asked.

Oh, and he had a stutter, or stammer, or whatever the word was.

She nodded.

"I-I'm s-sor-sorry..." He hugged her, cheek on her shoulder.

"He found me in the hall before breakfast, and he talked to me at lunch and then he asked me to volunteer to help him in his class this week... I thought I wouldn't have to face him if I dropped Defense! And yet there he is, prancing around, still in my life! I can't-I can't do this..."

"It'll-It'll b-be okay..."

She sighed, and hugged him back. He was usually right, though it often took her a long time to realize. "Thanks, Loo. How are things with Zabini? Gonna talk to her this year?"

"I-I-I-"

"Tournament means a Yule Ball... You can ask her to it... Just imagine, you and Valentina Zabini, sweeping around the Great Hall Ballroom!"

"I-I-" Louis looked ready to faint of embarrassment.

"Thanks for listening to me whine, let's go get dinner! I can face him now!"

Louis blinked, the red fading from all over his face, slowly. They were late, and he probably wasn't pleased, but he never complained. One day she'd have to pay him back. Somehow she'd package him the years-worth of time he'd spent listening to her complaints and give it to him. Pay him back his time, let him use it for other things.

"Plan any good projects recently?"

He grinned.

Sunlight is a little brother's childish smile.

* * *

Hey, three chapters and almost twenty reviews! I feel so proud! *happy* Who wants to be twenty?

Better yet! Whose review wants to be drinking age in America!


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